“Well, we can’t wait for the girl and the kid. I’m going on. Stay and look for them yourself, if you like. But our whole timing schedule is off because of that bridge and we’ve got to make tracks. Even for the sake of hostages, we are risking too much.”
“Okay.” The familiar voice faded. A door slammed. The car turned, headed for the highway.
There was silence in the woods. Leslie barely breathed. Beside her she could feel the pounding of Jack’s heart, and again she was shaken by fury that anyone should frighten a child.
Hostages!
“Can’t we go now?” Jack whispered. “It’s so dark in here.”
“Soon. Wait a little while longer.”
“But the car went away.”
“I’m not sure all three men were in it.”
As she strained her ears, Leslie discovered that the black silence was pricked with a score of small sounds. Whispering leaves. Snapping twigs. The scurry of unseen life. She remembered Doris’s comment that the woods were alive, that at night they belonged to the animals, that human beings were intruders here.
“Snakes,” the coarse strange voice had said.
A shudder shook her body. She could feel something crawling over her and told herself firmly that it was all imagination. Something struck the branch of a tree overhead and she started, then realized that it was probably a flying squirrel.
There was the faint far drone of an airplane. She wished she were safe, clear of this tangle of dark woods. High up in the limitless freedom of the open sky.
Twigs snapped and she was alert, her eyes wide, straining in the darkness. Something was moving in the undergrowth. Something—big. Her heart fluttered, steadied, missed a beat, raced and pounded in her chest.
A dead branch broke with a clap like thunder, under a man’s weight. A flashlight gleamed. It played on the trees over her head, lowered. It had reached the brambles now, crept along their length. It struck her eyes, blinding her after the scented gloom of the woods.
Then she heard a low, jubilant exclamation. “Leslie, Leslie, my darling!” For a moment Donald Shaw switched the light on his own face to reassure her. He parted the brambles carefully.
“Take Jack first,” she said. “I’m all right.”
He picked up the small boy and in a few moments returned for her. She went into his arms, her face burrowing into his shoulder.
“Oh, Donald! Donald!”
“It’s all right, my darling. All right.” He laughed as the thorny stems whipped across his bare shoulders. “I do manage to put you in the most uncomfortable situations.”
“I put myself in this one,” she said, still clinging to him. “Oh, Donald, they might have killed Jack. Setting fire to the barge while he was on it.”
Jack, with the incredible resilience of childhood, was calling impatiently, “Aw, don’t be so mushy. Look, there’s something going on. C’mon, Leslie.”
Donald chuckled in his relief. “We’re coming, but it’s all over now.”
“Someone set that fire,” Leslie said.
“I know,” he told her grimly. “When I realized you were on that burning barge, I nearly went crazy.”
“You’re soaking wet.”
“So are you,” he reminded her. “That’s a very wet river.”
“You went in after us?”
“Of course. But Charlie Turgen saw you dive over the side with the boy. He tried to reach you when you came ashore and he was knocked out for his pains. Some guy was trying to stop you. I’ve been hunting for you and going slowly out of my mind. I was afraid they would reach you first, try to hold you as hostages.”
“That’s what they intended. Something must have gone wrong with their plans.”
“It was Jim Mason after us,” Jack said. “I heard his voice. I told Paul Logan all along he was a pirate but not a usial one.”
“Not usial at all,” Donald agreed.
“How right you were, Captain Blood,” Leslie said. “We’ll make Paul eat his words.”
“So it was Mason,” Donald said.
“I believe you knew it all the time,” Leslie accused him. “What’s happening at the laboratory?”
“You’ll find out later. Your father can tell you. Right now I’m taking you both home before you get pneumonia.”
“My father’s at the laboratory?”
Donald laughed suddenly. “Practically the whole village is there.”
“And the formula?”
“Later,” he said firmly. “Can you walk with those bare feet or shall I carry you?”
He settled Leslie and Jack in the Volkswagen and flashed his light in an arc three times. Lieutenant Varelli came up breathlessly.
“Are they okay?”
“All present and accounted for, though slightly damp,” Donald said cheerfully.
“You are to go straight through Route 13. The roadblocks have been lifted.” The lieutenant gave a boyish laugh. “Just got word. They ran straight into our arms! Quite a surprise party. Our boys gave them a real welcome.” He touched his cap in a salute. “Good night.”
As Donald let in the clutch, Leslie said, “Why the fancy salute?”
“Just high spirits, I guess. You’re shivering. I’ll get you home as fast as I can.” He turned on the car heater. “Oh, Leslie, my poor darling! First I nearly overturn you in a sidecar, and then I find you all wrapped up in a blackberry bush. Now I’ve put you in a regular steam laundry. I’ll leave you at home so you can get out of those wet clothes, and take Jack on to Web Rock.”
She was half asleep with exhaustion and reaction when the car stopped at the Blake house. In the back seat Jack was sleeping soundly, undisturbed by the puddle of water in which he lay. Donald took Leslie’s arm, guided her stumbling feet to the door, rang the bell.
“Good night, my dearest.” He kissed her lips lightly and ran back to the car.
Agatha opened the door, looked at the girl, her wet slip clinging to her, water dripping from her hair, a deep scratch across one cheek.
“Leslie!” She drew her in, took her upstairs, turned on hot water and helped the stumbling, weary girl into the tub, without fuss or question. She had to awaken her to get her out of the tub and into bed.
“All right?” she asked anxiously.
Leslie turned her cheek on the pillow and dropped fathoms deep into sleep.
20
That night the heat wave was broken by a drenching rain, which finally extinguished the last smoldering embers of the fire. The covered bridge had been consumed; only the concrete supports remained. The barge had burned down to the waterline.
The downpour soaked the weary members of the Volunteer Fire Department as they turned back to their homes. It drenched the men who, for the second time, were nailing boards over a broken window in the laboratory. It washed like waves over the windshields of patrol cars as they brought their sullen captives to the state police barracks.
But for the most part, the people of Claytonville awakened, listened in relief to the cooling promise of the rain, and turned on their sides to sleep again. And there were some who did not hear it at all.
At Web Rock, Captain Blood slept restlessly, battling with a nightmare in which a strange man chased him through deep woods, with danger lurking on either side.
In another room, Doris dropped off to sleep, hoping that Paul had got home safely from the fire. He was, of course, a member of the Volunteer Fire Department.
In still another room, Jane stared into the dark, thinking about the time fuse she had lighted for the next day. She pictured herself, the center of attention, in a white dress and a big white hat, unveiling the sculpture that represented Douglas Clayton’s heroic action. She hoped arrangements had been made for the metropolitan press to be there. Life might even send a photographer. She was very photogenic.
At the Blake house, Leslie slept deeply and in her sleep she smiled to herself.
Agatha, who had watched silently beside her stepdaughter’s bed, fearful of a
rise in temperature, touched the girl’s cool skin and went quietly back to her own room. She glanced at her watch. Nearly one o’clock. Corliss hadn’t come home. She wasn’t tired at all. She might as well wait up for him.
She settled herself in a rocking chair by the window and took up her vigil. Corliss! When he did return, he’d want her to be waiting, to hear about what had happened. She rocked contentedly, while rain beat on the windows and on the garden, soaked into the dry ground, reached the thirsty roots of trees.
In a narrow hospital bed, Oliver Harrison stirred uneasily, opened his eyes. The nurse, who had been watching the handsome profile with admiration, smiled at him. He felt the lump on his head, frowning.
“I am your special Mrs. Lamb. You’ve been x-rayed. Nothing but a nasty knock,” she assured him. “I understand you were quite the hero of the occasion, Mr. Harrison.”
He gave her his warm smile. “Only did my job,” he said modestly.
“Mr. Blake called up. Very anxious about you he was. He couldn’t get away but he’ll be around to see you in the morning.”
“I’ll be up and around in the morning,” Harrison assured her. “It takes more than I got to put me out of the running.”
He spoke lightly, but the nurse had an uneasy feeling that he could be a dangerous man. He was obviously consumed with anger about the knockout blow he had received. She was aware of a stirring of sympathy for the man who had attacked him. Mr. Harrison was not one to leave a score unsettled.
“What happened after I was brought here?” he asked.
“Now, Mr. Harrison, you’ll know all about it in the morning when Mr. Blake comes. You mustn’t get excited. If you need a sleeping pill, I’m to give you one.”
“Sleep! I can’t sleep until I know.”
He saw the quiet determination on her face when he raised his voice in irritation. This wasn’t the way to handle a woman who was accustomed to dealing competently with the vagaries of the ill, trained to disregard the unreason of people who were fretful.
“Please, Mrs. Lamb!” he changed his tactics. “Tell me about it and then I’ll sleep like a baby.”
She responded to his cajoling manner with a pleased little laugh. “Well, all right then. It’s the most excitement Claytonville ever had. An attempt was made, as you know, to steal the formula the Company has been working on. As a distraction from the burglary, fire was set to the barge at the old Clayton place, the Blake place it is now. Of course, you know better than anyone, you saved the formula. Then, after that, everything went wrong.”
“What happened?” he asked sharply.
“Now you must not get excited,” she said soothingly. “Well, the barge broke loose. It was supposed to burn right there and keep the firemen and the police on the other side of the river. Instead, it got away and jammed into the covered bridge. The bridge is gone, of course. Such a pity. People used to come from all over to photograph it or paint it. Anyhow, the fire on the bridge cut off the line of retreat. Instead of getting straight back into the village, the criminals had to take Route 13 eight miles before they could cross the river. The state police had been prepared for something happening, so roadblocks were set up.”
“They caught the men?”
The nurse heard the tension in his voice. “Oh, dear, yes,” she said reassuringly. She put her hand on Harrison’s pulse. “You must not worry any more,” she told him cheerfully. “Everything is under control.”
At the Fox and Rabbit, Felice Allen, in pale green pajamas and matching satin mules, paced the floor of her room. Her red hair was like a flame, her narrow green eyes were shadowed, cigarette butts had piled up in the ashtray. The room was blue with smoke, but she could not open the window because of the driving force of the rain.
Why didn’t he call her as he had promised? What had happened? She had heard the hoarse toots of the fire alarm, the clang of the hook and ladder, and had watched private cars dart past toward the covered bridge, lights blinking. She had seen the flames as the bridge caught fire.
Something had gone wrong. She lighted another cigarette. Listened. The fire was over, the weary firefighters had left, there was only the steady drum of the rain. Through the water on the windowpane she could make out a couple of street lamps, the dim lights inside drugstore and grocery store that burned all night. Nothing else. The deadly quiet of the village. How she hated the place!
She longed with all her heart for the ceaseless roar of New York traffic, the tooting of boats signaling in the East River, the lights that never went out, the sense of life, feverish life, going on around her. In New York she’d be catching a new night spot show, sketching some celebrity’s dress, or making notes about jewelry or an evening bag. She had even done a moving column once on what jeweled pillboxes could do for a woman’s personality, particularly if she carried pills in pretty pastel shades. There was some sense in that. Some drama.
She lighted another cigarette. For weeks she had dragged out the time here. They had better be worth it. She made up her mind that they would be worth it. Someone would pay for those weeks of boredom and pay heavily.
She put out the half-smoked cigarette. A sick conviction struck her. He wasn’t going to call. She switched out her light and lay sleepless in bed, listening to the relentless beat of the rain.
* * *
At the state police barracks, lights were blazing. The forces of law never go off duty. The lieutenant, as alert as though he had not already put in eighteen hours of duty, reached for the thick cup of coffee a trooper brought him.
“Thanks. But what I’d really prefer would be a three-course meal.”
The trooper grinned. “I’m thinking of taking up cooking in my time off. If any.”
The sergeant who had been making notes leaned back and flexed his cramped fingers.
Varelli sipped his coffee and then looked at the two prisoners in front of him. A third man sat on a chair across the room, his head sunk on his chest. Corliss Blake sat quietly, without making any comment.
“Well,” the lieutenant said, “looks to me as though we’ve got the whole story.” He turned to a trooper. “You’ve sent on those fingerprints?”
“Yes, sir. We ought to get an answer some time tomorrow.”
“Okay,” one of the two men standing in front of his desk said in resignation, “the prints are on record.”
“You’ve done time?”
“Two years. Armed hold-up. Gus here was in Sing Sing at the same time. Second offender.”
“You—” snarled Gus.
The first man shrugged. “Look, they’ve got us cold on that. No point in lying about it. They’ll dig up the records. Only thing is that they haven’t a single thing on us this time but smashing a window and setting it up to look like a gang job.”
“We didn’t steal anything,” Gus pointed out hopefully.
Varelli grinned. “That’s right. You didn’t. There’s another matter, of course. Arson. Burning the barge, the covered bridge.”
Both exconvicts turned to glare at Jim Mason, who did not lift his head.
“That was his idea. Trust an amateur.”
“How did Mason get onto you two?”
“We knew a buddy of his in Sing Sing. Mason’s brother-in-law. Dead now. Guy named Allen. Forger.”
“Okay. Take them away,” the lieutenant said.
A trooper nodded toward a door. “Get going,” he said.
The two prisoners shuffled out without a word.
Varelli finished his coffee, taking his time. “Well, Mason?”
“Look,” the accountant said desperately, “it was an accident. Just chance. I was helping fight the fire. See? And then the firemen got on the job so I wasn’t needed. I hailed this car for a hitch back. Never saw them before in my life.” He mopped perspiration from his forehead with shaking hands. “Nor a word of truth in what they were saying.”
“Just asked for a lift, is that it?” Varelli said pleaslanty.
Jim Mason nodded in relief. �
�That’s it.”
“But why didn’t you use your own car? It’s still in the parking lot at the Company, and I’m darned if I can see how you fought the fire from this side of the river.”
Mason stared at him blankly. Moistened dry lips.
“Where did you work before you came here, Mason?”
“Uh—accountant with a printing firm in New York. Gone out of business now. Then, before that, a firm in Cleveland. But—”
“Let me guess.” Varelli was still pleasant. “It’s gone out of business, too.”
“Well, it does happen,” Mason said sullenly.
“It sure does. But how about your job in the accounting department of the Gypton Company? Did that just slip your mind?”
The freckles stood out against the pallor of Jim Mason’s face. “I’ve got nothing more to say until I see a lawyer.”
“Tough luck on you that Harrison was guarding that formula,” Varelli commented. “How much did Gypton offer you for it?”
Somewhat to his own surprise, Jim Mason refused to tell him.
21
The morning of the Clayton Festival dawned bright and clear. The day seemed to have been freshly washed by the rain of the night before. A light breeze and a warm sun were rapidly drying the bunting.
Corliss Blake and Agatha, after a sleepless night, spent a couple of frantic hours making telephone calls. A meeting was to be held in the Town Hall at one o’clock. The village was filled with wild rumors. The formula had been saved. No, it had been stolen. Oliver Harrison—such a handsome man, my dear!—had been shot. No, he had been stabbed. Five exconvicts had been caught after a running gun battle in which at least three had been killed. Corliss Blake had been held all night at the state police barracks for questioning. He was under arrest.
Do you really think … of course not, such a nice family, but you can’t tell me there’s not something behind this. Where there’s smoke there’s fire.
Long before noon, a crowd had begun to gather in front of the Town Hall. The local constable was helpless to cope with the confusion. Fortunately, the state police were on hand, though the original plans had not called for them to appear before three o’clock when the parade was scheduled to start.
A Candle in Her Heart Page 19
